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could not trap her. She was more likely to kill him here in his shop, out of paranoia, then to end up at his mercy.
    Her gun hand itched, and she rubbed her jeans pocket absent-mindedly.
    ‘How long for a Euro passport?’ she said in a steady voice. ‘It has to be fast.’ She had not seen her Canadian passport since Luther Hand had abducted her. She felt certain it had been burned to cinders in the French farmhouse. She had never made a move abroad without it, but her passport had been in her handbag, along with her mobile phone, all taken by Luther when he’d abducted her. They were doubtless destroyed. She had considered visiting an embassy to apply for another passport, but that would quickly put her back on the grid. Considering the reach and resources of her opponent, such a risk seemed unwise. But acquiring false identification brought its own risks. She’d wrestled with this step.
    ‘You policía or something like this?’ the counterfeiter asked her.
    She looked him in the eye. ‘No,’ she said. Daughter of a cop, yes. And no, he would not approve. ‘I am not a cop,’ she confirmed, plainly and decisively. ‘I’m someone in need of a service, and I hear you are the best to provide it. Have I been misled?’
    ‘This passport. It is for you, yes?’
    She nodded.
    ‘I don’t know …’ He was obviously fishing for more cash. ‘It is difficult.’
    ‘That’s two thousand I just gave you. I’ll give you another eight when I have that passport in my hands, as long as you can do it quickly. But if I’ve been misled …’ She frowned and put out her hand, palm up. ‘You can just give me my two thousand Euros back now and you won’t see me again.’
    His eyes widened. ‘Let’s see now,’ he protested quietly.
    It was a good starting price. Not crazy enough to make her stand out as a fool, she figured, but good enough to show she meant business.
    ‘Top quality. Fifteen,’ he said. ‘Five now.’
    Her face hardened. Luther’s notes indicated this was his local counterfeit passport contact. From what she’d seen of Luther’s collection of passports, the work was excellent. Or perhaps Javier handled the business end of things and someone else made the goods? Could those fat fingers really produce so exacting a product? Either way, she was sure this was the man, and she needed ID.
    Mak didn’t want to be taken for a pushover. ‘Twelve. Four now, eight later. That’s all.’
    ‘Fifteen is my price.’
    ‘Fine. I’ll have my money back now.’ She turned and moved to leave. She’d stand at his counter until he came round. She didn’t like this airless room.
    Javier touched her elbow and nodded his confirmation. ‘Two days,’ he said. He appeared to think for a moment. ‘Come on Friday around five. The shop will be closed. I will be here.’
    She handed him an envelope containing her unsmiling passport photographs. They wouldn’t let her wear the glasses in the image. She’d not been surprised, though she preferred the morphing effect of the spectacles. Without them she felt she looked just a little bit too much like Makedde Vanderwall.
    ‘Friday,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll bring the rest then.’
    They had a deal.
    Business completed for now, she stepped out onto the dirty street and took a deep breath. Two days was even faster than she’d hoped. Only two days and she would have her own identity. She could travel. She could check in to any hotel. She would be so much more unhampered. Mak wondered what had kept her from taking this step before.
    Two days …
     
    Javier Rafel could not believe his luck. Grinning at the thought of all the money he would soon make, he picked up the phone and made a call.

CHAPTER 6
    The Cassimatis family lived in a single-level red-brick home in Merrylands, in Sydney’s west. Every centimetre of the eight-hundred-square-metre lot served a purpose. There was the house itself, fully packed with six family members, the single guest room overflowing with